“What has happened to thee, Lupa?” he asked.
When Lupa’s name was spoken, Psyche hastened to the door. So rough and unmannerly were the neighbors of Alcmaeon that they were almost entirely ignored by Alcmaeon and his family. Lupa was the only exception. The poor deformed child of eleven was the youngest of six children. She was cruelly treated by her family, who looked upon her deformity as a crime. Psyche was the only one in the neighborhood who took an interest in the sad, misshapen, but good-natured girl. In reply to Alcmaeon’s question, Lupa said, “They have beaten me.”
“Enter and tell us why, O Lupa,” said Psyche, gently.
“They gave me a jar of water to carry,” replied the poor child. “It was too heavy. I let it fall. To punish me, they beat me, and put me out of the house for the night.”
“Thou canst rest here. Weep no more. Art thou hungry?” asked Psyche.
The deformed girl timidly nodded her head.
After arranging a couch for her, Psyche brought her some bread, and said: “Eat and sleep in peace, O unhappy Lupa. No one shall hurt thee here.”
At noon on the following day Alcmaeon’s house was deserted. Poor Lupa had gone back to her cheerless home; Alcmaeon was at school; and Psyche and Hera had gone to the rehearsal at Pompey’s Theatre.
Of all the celebrations that were to be given the people by Nero on his arriving at the manly age, the dancing at Pompey’s Theatre would be the least exciting. The taste of most Romans dwelt on vulgarity, on obscene comedy, and on exciting gladiatorial combat and horse-races. Still, many delighted in watching the evolutions of the dance. Psyche was to portray Niobe,—a sad but beautiful impersonation. As all the dancers knew their different rôles, the rehearsal required little repetition. Hera remained only a short time. Having met Gyges, whom she playfully called Eros, she left Psyche under his watchful eyes. These she thought were better guardians than her own.
Gyges was no golden-winged, heaven-descended god, like the mythical protector of the goddess Psyche, but a rich young charioteer, twenty-two years old. He was a Greek, and a perfect specimen of manly strength and symmetry. He had an oval face, with a pair of sharp, quick black eyes, a bold nose and forehead, and a small mouth, with lips that were thick and gracefully curved,—especially the short upper one, which was shaped like the bow of Eros. His rich, black curly hair was cut short. His body was graceful, lithe, and muscular. He was a living counterpart of the Hermes of Praxiteles at Olympia. At the races he always wore the green color; and as that color was the favorite, the betting odds changed whenever he drove. His intrepid and daring appearance, as he stood in the chariot, with the reins strapped around his body, his right foot resting on the chariot shield in front of him, his body bent back, his eyes flashing with fire, his clear voice shouting to his horses, inspired the spectators with wild enthusiasm. The excitement and rush of the chariots, as they rounded the last turn, with the finish line dead ahead of them,—on, on, in breathless anxiety, on to victory,—so thrilled the multitudes that they rose to their feet and rent the air with cheers.